


Like Dreamers Do

by Lexalicious70



Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: Dream Sex, M/M, Wet Dream
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-14
Updated: 2017-04-14
Packaged: 2018-10-18 17:24:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,042
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10621629
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lexalicious70/pseuds/Lexalicious70
Summary: Quentin’s sex dreams are back and causing more trouble for Penny, but their new content is something the traveler isn’t prepared for at all.





	

**Author's Note:**

> I’d like to thank Cldfiredrgn for inspiring this fic and helping me with a few of the details. Cldfire, I’m so glad we met! You’re the best. This fic is for fun, not profit, I don’t own The Magicians or the characters. (Bummer, I would love to have my very own Eliot Waugh.) It's my therapy. Feedback is magic! Enjoy!

Like Dreamers Do  
By Neptune_Rising70 

Penny was back in Quentin Coldwater’s subconscious again. 

It was the last place he’d expected to find himself after falling asleep that night, and Goddamn it, he was gonna wring that pathetic punk’s neck for not using the spells the third years had given him to strengthen his mental wards. 

“Quentin!” He called. “Where are you, fanboy?” The room he was standing in was the same one as last time, where Julia and Alice had starred in some weird lesbian mashup of Game of Thrones and Star Wars, but Quentin was nowhere to be seen. Footsteps sounded out from behind Penny and he whirled around, only to come face to face with Eliot Waugh—but this didn’t look like any version of Eliot Waugh Penny had ever seen. He was wearing brown pants that were so tight they looked like he’d been sewn into them, a long-sleeved white linen shirt, black vest, and some kind of futuristic gun in a holster that hung low on his lean hips. His dark hair was styled in a way that made it feathered on the sides. Penny stared. 

“What the . . .” 

Quentin appeared in the opposite doorway. He was dressed all in white, except for the same holster that Eliot wore, only a cylindrical metal object hung from it. Penny’s eyes widened. 

_Christ, please, do not let that be a vibrator!_ He thought to himself, and then the outfit prodded something in his memory, the cover of a DVD at the video rental place in his hometown, and then it clicked. Quentin was dressed as Luke Skywalker. But why—

Eliot crossed the room, and as he passed by Penny, the traveler realized that the tall Physical Kid was dressed like Han Solo. He towered over Quentin and cupped his chin with one elegant hand. 

“Don’t get cocky, kid!” The Waugh-Solo brushed a thumb across Quentin’s cheek. “That’s my job.” 

Penny started to speak when another Eliot appeared. This version wore black pants and a weird gold tunic with an A-shaped symbol on the breast. His hair was swept back and he took Quentin’s hand. 

“Your personal space—my final frontier!” He breathed, and Penny squeezed his eyes shut. 

“Jesus Christ! I am so out of here!” He forced himself awake and found himself staring at the ceiling of his room, away, blessedly, from weird Quentin Coldwater and his fucked-up dreams. He covered his face with both hands and then tossed his blankets aside. 

_So I guess I was wrong about him being savant. And why the hell was he dreaming about Eliot Waugh? That arrogant lush? And why the fuck do I even care?_

Ten minutes later, Penny was stalking across campus, trying to shake the images of Quentin’s dreams from his mind. His broad shoulder smacked against something and he came out of his thoughts to see a lot of brightly-colored material before he realized he’d walked right into Eliot. 

“Hello, you do realize you’re supposed to keep right on a path only wide enough to accommodate two people?” Eliot asked. “Or was all that angry muttering you were doing occupying absolutely every brain cell?” 

The way the tall Physical Kid looked down his long nose at him made Penny want to pound it into new and interesting shapes, and it must have showed on his face because Eliot took a step back. 

“Well! Someone didn’t get their beauty sleep!” 

“Wasn’t exactly my fault.” Penny scowled as the image of Eliot in that stupid space smuggler outfit came back to him. “Where’s Quentin?” 

“Asleep in his room, I think—” Eliot frowned as Penny pushed past him and headed for the cottage. 

“You’re welcome!” Eliot called after him, adjusting his shirt, and Penny gave him the finger without ever slowing or turning around. 

 

“I think we lost the Imperial Troopers for now.” 

“Wait . . . what?” Quentin blinked as his dream shifted. He and Eliot—no, Eliot/Han, were now in the cargo hold of what he knew was the Millennium Falcon. He looked around for Penny, knowing he’d seen him just a moment ago. Goddamn it, why did he have to butt into every part of Quentin’s life, waking and dreaming? 

“Hey, are you paying attention or are you dreaming about being a Jedi again?” Eliot-as-Han asked. 

“I’m paying attention.” Quentin replied, wondering when Alice or Julia were going to make their usual appearance. Then Eliot’s knees were touching his own. 

“Want to hear about how fast I made the Kessel Run?” He asked. 

“Uhm.” Quentin forgot how to use his words as Eliot’s amber gaze pinned him and then came closer as he closed the space between them. “I . . . not really?” 

“Good.” Eliot captured his lips and lifted his hands into Quentin’s hair. Quentin broke out in goosebumps and leaned into the kiss, his hands clutching at the taller man’s vest. Eliot’s hands began to tug open Quentin’s tunic, his long fingers touching skin, oh, fuck, finally—

“Hey!” 

A hard shove to his left shoulder and a shake of his bed blew Quentin’s dream apart. He reached for Eliot but he dissolved and Quentin’s hands closed over empty air. He opened his eyes to realize that Penny was standing over him and that his dream was still with him in the form of an aching erection. It tented the sheet and Quentin fumbled for the blankets to pull them up hard. 

“Jesus! The fuck, Penny! Get out of my room, you asshole!” 

Penny felt heat rush to his cheeks as he caught a glimpse of Quentin’s hardon before he hid it under the blankets—fuck this nerd for making him be here in the first place—and he shoved Quentin again. 

“I can’t believe I have to repeat myself! Shut your fucking mind before I put you in a coma myself!” Penny stalked out, his big fists clenched, and Quentin flopped back to stare at the ceiling. His typical sex dreams, filled with images of Alice and sometimes Julia, had morphed into something different lately, and the common denominator was Eliot. Haughty, languid, indifferent, wonderful Eliot, everything Quentin wasn’t and everything he longed to be. Quentin had never dreamed about another boy before this way or experienced a crush on anyone of the same sex before. If that’s what this really was. 

_Or maybe it’s just another stupid crack in my broken brain_ , he thought to himself as he kicked off the covers and retreated to the bathroom and a cold shower. 

One Week Later

“Bambi? I’m worried about Quentin.”

Margo looked up from her magazine. Eliot stood behind the cottage bar, shaking up one of his concoctions. But he looked distracted, and when Eliot’s attention was pulled away from his alcoholic creations, Margo knew the situation might be dire. She got up and went to him, touching one hand. 

“We’re all worried about Quentin. His anxieties have their own anxieties.” 

“No, it’s not that. It’s something else. He’s not sleeping much. I hear him pacing the halls at night and it’s like he’s avoiding me!” Eliot set the shaker down. 

“Other people avoid you all the time and you could give a shit.” Margo pointed out, and Eliot closed his eyes a moment, as if he couldn’t believe Margo could be so utterly thick. 

“Of course they do, dear, and it’s fine when it’s other people. But this Quentin.” He started shaking the drink again. 

“I know exactly what’s wrong with him.” 

Eliot nearly dropped the shaker and Margo turned, her eyes snapping wide in surprise. Penny stood before them where he hadn’t been a moment before. Eliot set the shaker on the bar. 

“Excuse _you!”_

“Fuck being excused and fuck your wards, which, by the way, need a lot of work.” Penny said, ignoring the way Eliot put a hand to his chest, as if Penny had physically wounded him. “Didn’t you hear me? I said, I know what’s wrong with Quentin!” 

“All right, so you know.” Margo said, facing the traveler. “Want to let us in on it?” 

“That’s why I came here. Because only you can stop it.” Penny said directly to Eliot, who frowned. 

“Me? Why?” 

“Because, you asshole, you’re the one he’s having wet dreams about every night!” 

 

Quentin was flying. 

There were fluffy clouds all around him, tinged a cotton-candy pink from the recent sunset, and his right hand gripped a warm, familiar wrist. He turned his head to see Eliot flying along with him, but his friend was clad in a red and blue from head to toe, from deep blue spandex that covered most of his body, to red overshorts, boots, and a magnificent red cape. The front of the suit featured a stylized E. His dark hair swept back in thick ebony waves, all but one section, which fell over his forehead in a spit curl. Quentin glanced down at himself—a camera dangled from a strap around his neck and a messenger bag was strapped across his chest. Super Eliot grinned at him, a confident, sunny grin that was so different from his usual cynical smirk, and it made Quentin’s stomach tighten and flutter. 

_Can you read my mind?_ He thought randomly, and then they were landing on the rooftop patio. A gentle fire flickered in a round fire pit and Eliot lifted Quentin into his arms as they landed, like he intended to carry him over the threshold. There was a wicker couch nearby and Eliot set him down on it. 

“Do you have enough material for your article on me, Mr. Coldwater?” He asked, his fists resting on his hips, and Quentin cleared his throat as he realized that Eliot’s groin was directly at eye level. 

“Oh . . . uh huh! Yeah . . . I think so! About that x-ray vision thing though. Can you really see through most everything?” 

“Yes, pretty much.” 

“What color underwear am I wearing?” Quentin asked, and Eliot looked down at him, squinting just a bit. 

“Blue.” He smiled. “Is that right?” 

“Maybe you’d better check for yourself.” Quentin replied, always braver in dreams than in reality, and Eliot went to one knee, his hands working open Quentin’s fly. A rush of hot breath washed over his cock and Quentin moaned as one hand worked through the taller man’s hair. 

“Please, God yes, please, Eliot . . .” 

“Jesus!” 

The shocked voice filtered through the rapidly-thinning wall of Quentin’s sleep and it caused him to jerk awake just as he felt the first flick of Eliot’s tongue on his cock. Quentin blinked as it remained at attention in the waking world as well, and he looked up to see Margo, Penny, and Eliot all standing over him. 

“Oh Jesus . . .” Eliot said again, and Penny gestured to the tented sheet. 

“What the fuck did I tell you, man? Every night while I was trying to sleep! His dreams about you were so loud they kept pulling me in! All kinds of Star Trek Wars and superhero fantasy shit. Seriously Coldwater, you are twisted!” 

“Star Trek and Star Wars are two different things.” Quentin pulled the blankets up over his head and then added a muffled “Douche.” 

“Can Quentin and I have a moment alone please?” Eliot asked, and Penny nodded. 

“God, yes! Please, blow him or something so I can get some fucking sleep!” Penny marched out and Margo followed, giving Eliot a wink before she closed the door. 

“Quentin?” Eliot tried to gently peel the blankets down but Quentin held onto them. “Quentin, come on, this is ridiculous, come out of there!” 

“No!” 

“Well then you leave me no choice but to come in.” Eliot rounded the end of the bed and lifted the covers from the opposite end, crawling underneath and wriggling upward until he found Quentin’s hidey-hole. Quentin started in disbelief. 

“Eliot, what the fuck!” 

“We need to talk. And if this the only way, then that’s fine. Penny told me about the dreams you’ve been having. Starring me, specifically?” 

“I . . . people dream things, El. Cats wear business suits and carry smartphones sometimes, it doesn’t always make sense.” 

“Okay. Well, I’m going to go out on a limb here and guess that the erection you have right now wasn’t caused by a cat in a business suit. And if it was, we really need to talk about getting you more therapy.” 

“It wasn’t! I mean. It was you, okay? But it wasn’t you.” Quentin turned to him, feeling oddly safe under the covers, the low light making Eliot’s amber eyes two shades darker. 

“If I wasn’t me, who was I?” 

“You . . . were sort of. Superman.” Quentin admitted. “In one of them. And in some of the other ones, you were Han Solo or Captain Kirk. Do you know who they are?” Quentin asked, and Eliot rolled his eyes. 

“Yes Quentin, I grew up in Indiana, not under a rock on Mars. Although the two are rather comparable now that I think on it.” The corners of his mouth quirked up. “I was Superman? What were we doing?” Eliot shifted a little closer and his hand rested close to Quentin’s chest. 

“Flying. At first . . . and then we landed on a rooftop and—” Quentin lowered his gaze. 

“What, Q? You can tell me. It’s just us here, and I won’t judge you.” 

“You judge people all the time, actually?” 

“Other people. Not you.” 

“Oh. Well . . . like I said, you were Superman and there’s that scene in the movie where Lois Lane asks Superman if he can tell what color underwear she has on. I asked you the same thing, and when you guessed, I told you that you better check. To make sure you were right.” 

Eliot’s gaze was fixed on him now, and his tongue licked against his own upper lip a moment. 

“And did I?” 

“You went down on one knee.” Quentin closed his eyes to try to better recapture the dream. “And you opened my fly.” His cock, still partially erect, flexed back to life and pressed into Eliot’s thigh. After a moment, long, clever fingers teased it out through the slit in Quentin’s boxers. He shuddered. 

“El!” 

“Tell me the rest.” Eliot’s tenor purred close to his ear as his fingers curled around the hard shaft and began to stroke and tug. “Did I suck you off, Quentin? Did I bend you over a chair and fuck you on the rooftop, under the stars?” 

“You were going to suck me.” Keeping his eyes closed made Quentin brave. “I felt your tongue there, just for a moment, but then Penny—fucking Penny! Woke me up!” 

“Don’t think about Penny. What would you have liked to happen, if you hadn’t been woken up?” The fingers moved in a deliciously slow rhythm, up, down, up, a thumb brushing against the head, down. 

“I would have wanted you—him—to suck me off. I’ve never had a blowjob before—” Quentin’s words were lost in a sharp intake of air as Eliot slid downward, his sharp nose dragging down Quentin’s bare chest, then his belly, and then his lips were smacking and kissing the head of his cock. It jerked and leaked as Quentin struggled to remember how to breathe. His hands curled to his chest before Eliot got his head under them and nudged them, encouraging him to touch and pet his hair. Quentin put his hands in Eliot’s dark curls and discovered they were as soft as a rabbit’s pelt and smelled like myrrh and amber and hints of tobacco. He lowered his head to bury his face in them as Eliot licked and nuzzled the head of his cock, and then Quentin’s reality threatened to shrink down to white-hot pleasure as the older magician took most of his cock down his throat and began to hum softly while one hand palmed his balls and teased his perineum. Nerves he didn’t know he had snapped to attention and sent him signals that wavered between being tickled and being stroked. Eliot’s lips made a tight seal and his dark head began to bob. Quentin’s bare toes curled. 

“Eliot . . .” 

The whisper of a zipper being pulled down registered in Quentin’s consciousness and he looked down to see Eliot reaching inside his own slacks to stroke himself as he sucked. Quentin watched the fabric move and he reached down to gently palm and feel the area. Eliot moaned around his cock, and the resulting hum made Quentin’s body tense. Eliot’s tongue was doing devastating things to the underside of his cock and God those fingers, how had he not considered that area a source of pleasure, and where had Eliot learned to do that with his lips, what—what—

“Oh . . . oh God!” Quentin gasped as he realized his brain was stuttering as its pleasure centers lit up like a pinball machine and his cock jerked hard before he shot hard into Eliot’s throat. Eliot only backed up a little, taking in what Quentin gave him, his trim hips snapping sharply before Quentin felt hot wetness cover his hand. As his own pulses slowed and Eliot pulled away, his shoulders rising and falling rapidly, Quentin realized their combined scent was filling the space under the blankets in a way that wasn’t completely unpleasant. It reminded him of the smell that hung in the air after a powerful cooperative spell—heat and electricity and desire. And hadn’t this been almost the same thing? His head fell back against the pillow, his hair fanning out around him. Eliot dabbed at his lips with the back of one hand. 

“Quentin? Are you all right?” 

“Yeah. Good. More than good.” He said, and then a stream of dopamine-fueled giggles escaped him. Eliot chuckled in response and brushed a lock of hair from Quentin’s eyes. 

“So. Was it as good as your dreams?” 

“Better.” 

“So you’re saying that you prefer real-life Eliot to fantasy Eliot? Because intimate access to real-life Eliot could be arranged for one Quentin Coldwater if he so desires.” 

Quentin smiled and moved closer until his head fitted under Eliot’s chin and the rest of his body molded to the taller man’s body, like two pieces of a puzzle that no one had ever thought to put together before. 

“It’d be a dream.”

The End


End file.
